The Class of '61

Any class reunion that is not your own is the best class reunion.  Generally not much is asked of the spouse, at least directly, and one's emotional detachment from the proceedings allows for amusing character studies.

Or a license to ignore it all and play Hearts on your iPhone.

But I'm not that certain old man I observed, playing electronic cards from under the tablecloth. I thought that after fifty-five years it was high time my husband went to a class reunion.  So did certain 'girls' who have found him on Facebook in the last few years.  Never mind that he didn't remember any of them.  His memory of high school is simply sitting in classes and working late after school.

"I don't remember anyone."

"But they'll remember you."

I suppose that is not at all reassuring, having people blab at you that you have no recollection of at all.  At first my husband, in his typically frank fashion, simply used this broad truth when he was at a loss on how to respond, but more often than not there was at least a mutual memory to spin off of.  Or deadly curiosity.

Well, I set up that scenario.  I suggested matching shirts that my husband had sewn us several years ago.  Black and tan, with a pattern silhouette of a cowboy and his dog.  Blue jeans.  I wore my boots, which make me about ten inches taller than he is---and taller than most any other man in the room, even if I'm only five-ten without heels.  We entered the restaurant, and above the roar of the crowd came a squeal of delight from across the room.  A pretty lady edged her way towards us, looking much like her 1961 self featured on the name card on her chest.

The shirts in a different setting.

"I'm so glad you two came!" she said, giving us both a big hug.  I knew more or less what the girls on Facebook looked like, and she was not one of them.  In fact she never knew of my husband in high school, but she obviously knew who we were.

"How long have you two been together?"

We told her nineteen years, and that we had drove all the way from California for this occasion.

"California!  You know, as soon as my son graduated from high school, he went straight to California.  What else could he do in 1981?"

I thought there were plenty of closer escape routes in 1981---Boston, New York---but I suppose San Francisco is about the farthest away one can get from a New England mill town.

"Are you on Facebook?" she asked.

"Yes, are you?"

"No, but my son is!  His name is --- "  She had to have been voted the sweetest girl in high school.  Alas, we did not have a yearbook in hand to check on my intuition, but I did take his name down and contacted him on Facebook, joking you know how mothers are.

Another woman called our attention and took our picture from about ten feet away.  As far as I know, my husband never got to talk to her.

Our go-to Facebook girl escorted us to a small table we were to share with her husband.  He was of the small fireplug French farmer type, not handsome but nice looking with a complexion that made him look at least ten years younger.  We took an immediate liking to him, and the feeling was mutual.  Since his wife was on the reunion planning committee, he had been put in charge of the scholarship fundraiser raffle, a task he didn't seem to begrudge a bit.  This is not the first marriage for either one, and there was a sense of honoring each others efforts.  We bought tickets.

There was a man on the reunion planning board that was even more gaga over us than Her Sweetness.  He was yet another man with a good complexion, although not as firmly planted on his face.  His wavy white hair hovered around his head like a halo, giving him a spinster's air. I kept imagining his 'do cropped on the sides, the wave saucy on his forehead, as he kept touching us, hugging us.  Finally he passed by my seated husband again and kissed him on top of his head.  He was that happy that there was an out gay couple at the reunion he helped planned.  We got his story in bits and pieces,  mostly in the present tense: Senior housing, not out in that setting.  Besides the planning group, his church seemed to be his only social venue: "They're very accepting." The pianist for this occasion was the church pianist---a gay teddy bear, a very good player but totally unnecessary in the din.

Oh, the teacher that got arrested for improprieties with male students had to be discussed:

"I hated him," my husband said.

"Oh, I had a crush on him," mused the spinster.  "He gave me a ride once.  Just a few blocks ... "

It seemed the spinster's life had only gone a few blocks in any direction.

Drizella, unseated.

There were people of interest we never met.  One was Cinderella's Wicked Stepsister, Drizella.  She was the spitting image of that Disney character, and she was spitting mad that someone took the seat she has saved at a large table.  She raged at her husband over the indignity of it all, secretly aware that it had been done on purpose.  No one wanted to sit next to her.

Drizella's husband had a similarly long upper lip, but it was not set in umbrage like his wife's, but for the fact that he had very long chest hair that had wandered up his neck like Boston Ivy.  His nose was simply trying to escape the indignity of it all.  I suspect he felt this strange lack of grooming was his one personal victory over Drizella, never realizing that it pleased her by giving her something else to bitch about.

Actually, Mr. Drizella did come up to us with an inquiry.  Unfortunately, my husband was pleasantly occupied with someone else, so I had to field the question.

"My wife wants to know why you're wearing matching shirts."

I regarded him with a mixture of diffidence and disdain:  "Because we came together."

This didn't seem to make sense to him.  Too bad my husband was unavailable.  He would have simply said because we're married and watch Drizil get all flustered.  Ask me a personal question, and you'll get a personal answer.  I can't wait to be old enough not to give a shit.

"What's the pattern?"  As if it was cryptic or something.

I looked down, my hand smoothing my view.  "A cowboy.  And his dog."

I looked back up at him coolly, and having sensed he'd get nothing more from me, Drizil wandered back to Drizella to file his report.

A tiny woman then came up to inspect our shirts.  She was a seamstress, so apparently she had the right to do so.  Her own costume were expertly tailored, but not timeless.  Her brown A-line skirt that reached just below her knees and fussy patterned blouse screeched 1977.  Her cute little body and unlined face would have been a knockout in a dark sheath dress, but it was plain to see that she had no idea on how to be anything but dowdy.  She grabbed my wrist to inspect my cuffs, ran her fingers over the yoke and turned out the collar at my throat.  She pronounced all to be very good.

"And you're from California, so you can name your price," she said, turning to my husband.  "I gave up sewing garments.  People here pay more for slipcovers than wedding dresses."

In my telling you may think this reunion was full of seventy-three-year-olds fresh from frolicking in the the fountain of youth, despite their shortcomings in personal style, but there were indeed some gargoyles of both sexes, as well as people who looked fabulous yet old.

The buffet meal was fantastic, especially considering that the whole shindig cost only $25 a head.  My twentieth had cost $60 apiece for crappy food and a crappier d.j.  My thirtieth didn't even happen because of indecisive egos.  Obviously our parents have better budgetary skills---and they know how to K.I.S.S. and make up.

A man paused at our table.  His beauty had gone a bit pudgy, but that only made him look fifteen years younger.

"I saw you two eating breakfast this morning.  I was at Jean's, too, with some friends."

I had a vague recollection of him, sitting nearby with several men of similar eye appeal.  We were all dressed more casual at the time, so we had caught his eye even without the shirts.  He now looked a bit senatorial in a jacket and tie.

"Where are you staying?" He seemed to be following his intuition.

"Motel 6," we answered unabashedly.

"So am I," he replied, not so relaxed over that declasse fact.  "I have my new cocker spaniel with me, and as you know, that's about the only place that's pet friendly. What room are you in?"

"123."

"117," he chuckled.

He seemed reluctant to go more into depth, so he simply laid his hand softly on my shoulder and then moved on.  However, this was not the last my husband saw of him.

It was time for the raffle, and Facebook Girl really needed a cigarette.

"I'm taking your husband out into the parking lot with me," she growled in my ear.  "I need to talk to him.  You have the raffle tickets..." she added, as half an apology.

"Don't worry about me, dear," I replied, patting her arm.

Sitting alone at the table, the subject of idle speculation around the room, was slightly unnerving.  My tickets and my glass of water were my only props.  I didn't win the box of taffy, the coffee mug and other silly prizes---and the grand prize, announced at the last minute as $290 cash---went to Drizil!  I'm sure it was the D's social score of the decade.

Long after the raffle had ended my husband finally reappeared. He assured me that my patience would be rewarded: "Have I got some stories to tell you later."

I told him about the D's social triumph.

"So that's why Drizella was so happy when she reached out and said hello to me when I came back in," my husband mused wryly.

As I mentioned earlier, this is not Facebook Girl's first marriage.  Her husband has children from a previous marriage, the youngest a son about five years younger than myself.  This son came out to his mother and brother and was very poorly received, so he was terrified of coming out to his father.  Facebook Girl convinced him that Dad would be alright with it, and he was and is very supportive of his son.  Perhaps to a fault, for the son has a penchant for Puerto Ricans and makes life decisions based on his loins, so they've had to bail him out several times.  "And we're too old to bail him out anymore."  So, upon hearing at the table of my husband's semi-retired drug rehab therapist status, I imagine Facebook Girl was eager to vent a story not many people care to hear, and to discuss strategy.

The simple fact that his son was gay had come up at the table.  "I just wish he'd find someone nice," Dad had said, glancing over at me.  "It's tough to grow old alone."  His tenderness expressed was now tempered by my knowledge of his fear and frustration of maybe not being able to help his son again.

The man who saw us at breakfast was out in the parking lot, too.  After Facebook Girl was finished, he still lingered, so my husband approached him.

"So," the man began.  "How long have you been out of the closet?"

And so two late bloomers compared notes.  Although this man had numerous affairs in high school.

The Boy Most Likely

"He was VIP in school," my husband recalled.  "Handsome, smart, popular, involved in many clubs.  The Boy Most Likely."

So to speak ...


Mr. VIP named the names of the dead he had done in high school, but was otherwise polite.  "Several are here, after all," he demurred.  "With their wives."  So he was a gentlemen in a precarious retro social position, and thus very discreet.  I wondered if I had had such an illustrious high school career that I would ever go back, although I guess he was also reliving the secret thrill of it all.  And obviously he still had friends locally, judging by the boys at breakfast.  Of course I cannot be sure they're 'boys', but they all seemed pretty much peas in a pod---poised, restrained.  Although Mr. VIP now lived in the Big City, there was something unworldly about him, that despite his sexy past he was perhaps closer to the aforementioned Spinster's life than one can readily imagine.

Being an afternoon event in a restaurant, the reunion promptly began to unravel within a couple of hours.  We lingered, among the last to leave as the dinner reservations started arriving.  The ladies leaving remembered my husband from grammar school, the old neighborhood, the grocery store he worked at---or simply said you're cuter now than you were in high school.  So true of many of us who suffered At Seventeen.

"So, are you coming to the sixtieth?" asked Facebook Girl.

"Yes," my husband grinned.  "I think we will."

"Good!"

"Good!" I echoed.  "That means a a new pair of matching shirts for us!"

The Kindness of Strangers

Summer in the Far West means one must climb and climb some more to escape the heat.  Nine a.m., 80 degrees on the Sacramento Valley floor.  82 at three thousand feet. 78 at four thousand feet.  Above five thousand feet there is relief, and after cresting the first ridge the cool mountain valleys lay ahead.  The road undulates through pine forests, the windows are down, the sunroof is open and we're chilled by fresh air for the first time in months.

The typical dome of high pressure was overhead, and even at six thousand feet we had not left the haze below.  There's always a wildfire burning somewhere these days---this time, hundreds of miles away at Big Sur, causing bad air advisories east of the Sierra crest.  Lake Almanor was steely smooth under a beige sky.  Birds walked on water in the shallows north of Highway 36.  The forest dried out east of here, the air slowly warmed, but not unpleasantly.  The heat only returned when we dropped into Susanville and then drifted east and south onto the high desert.  A column of smoke rose over the barren ranges of Nevada ahead of us.

Traffic heading north on US 395 has been oddly sporadic---and then we learned why: A electric sign flashed ROAD WORK AHEAD POSSIBLE ONE HOUR DELAY.  There's nothing more fun that sitting on fresh asphalt while the temperature hovers in the upper 80s. I certainly will not idle away the time, but since the sun is directly overhead we're in the shade, and the breeze was surprisingly cool.  The breeze was also pungent with purple sage---a scent as calming as lavender.  I could have taken a nap if I didn't have to absently watch for the traffic to start moving again.  Exactly fifteen minutes later, it did.

Google Image

We coasted into Reno and then south of downtown to the Atlantis Casino to indulge in our favorite buffet.  The food is uncommonly good there, and seemed even better than ever.  Even the ranch dressing seemed homemade---not that gloppy cheap crap: Thin yet creamy, with a bright sharp dill and pepper flavor.  I was onto eating a small slice of prime rib when it suddenly didn't seem so good.  I pushed it aside and a waitress promptly took it away.  I sat there, rather rigidly, trying to stay in touch of my surroundings.

"Are you going to faint?" my husband asked.

I awoke, my face on the table in a pool of cold sweat.  A cluster of management floated around our booth.

"We call it Reno-itis," one of them said.  "People who aren't used to the elevation just go into a faint."

"I think it's his blood sugar," my husband corrected as he rubbed the back of my neck. "He does this very once in a while."

"This is so embarrassing," I managed to mumble.

"Oh, this is nothing to be embarrassed about," said another.  "Nothing like falling face first into a plateful of food.  That happens quite often."

I went out again, and then awoke with a glass of orange juice in front of me---and a man sitting in the booth with us.  Apparently he and my husband had been talking awhile.

"How long have you two been together?" he asked quietly.  I thought it was an odd question---until I slowly thought of my position on the table, my head down in the crook of my right arm, my left stretched out on table.  My husband is still rubbing my neck with his right hand, his left on the table.  Our rings match.

"Nineteen years," my husband replied.

"That's a long time," he said, obviously impressed.

He continued to make small talk.  At first it was quite personal, perhaps conspiratorial, but he then checked himself and spoke more generally.  Still we learned he had lived in the same general area of Long Beach that we had until three years ago.  It's strange how we keep running into old 'neighbors'.

"What's your birth year, Daniel?" he asked.  He was taking notes as the communicated with staff via his ear piece.

"1968."

"Whoa, you're only a year older than me."

I looked up from the sweaty crook of my arm.  He was a fireplug of a man, with salt and pepper hair. I would have been annoyed if I didn't feel so shitty, but since all he saw of me was my graying sideburns and thin spot on the back of my head, I had to give him slack.  After all, he presumed we'd be close to the same age.  And I knew he was asking my birth year so to credit our house card in some manner.

One of the women returned. "I think we should move you to the Atrium.  It's a little cooler there, and you can lay down on one of the couches with your feet up until you feel better."

We were rather surprised they didn't have a private room off the lobby for indisposed guests, but the offer seemed the best solution for the interim.  A wheel chair was brought, and my bent head and bald spot signaled to all diners that I was decrepit and should be pitied.  We made it to the emergency exit next to the bar when the sway of the chair took its toll.  I pressed my hands to my face and gave myself a lovely vomit facial.  Luckily our location allowed for instant access to damp towels before we crossed the very public lobby to the Atrium.  And I didn't get anything on my clothes, which every traveler is most grateful for.

I lounged most ungainly midst the plastic palms in the Atrium for some fifteen minutes, watching the glass elevators go up and their passengers look down at me.  Not really the best view for the nauseous.  Sharon, my attendant, returned to see how I was doing---and it was decided it was best to get me in our car and on the road again.  So, after equipped with many towels and barf bag, I was put into the wheelchair again and wobbled away as my husband brought our car around.  As we waited outside, my head bent down in order to keep everything down, a man started yelling at her from the parking lot.

"I need someone to help me find my car!"

"I can help you as soon as I get this gentleman in his car," Sharon replied pleasantly.

It was not the answer he was looking for.  "Walking won't do," he cried.  He was really agitated, perhaps strung out in some fashion.  "I need someone to drive me around!"

Sharon said nothing, thinking our tableau was explanation enough.

"I'm going to the front desk and RAISE MY VOICE."

I heard him walk away, and then Sharon sighed:  "Tuesday is now officially A Day of Entitlement."

Car and husband arrived, but the last few wobbles in the wheelchair were too much.

"Give me the bag.  THE BAG!"

Husband put it before me, I barfed into it, and the barf fell right out the bottom and went between the chair's foot rests and splattered all over the asphalt.

"There, there," Sharon said, rubbing my back.  "You'll probably feel much better now."

Well, as a matter of fact, I did. I laid back on the little leatherette passenger seat and unexpected dozed off in Truckee Canyon, awaking only when my husband asked for directions on where to get gas in Fernley.  It's always much cheaper there than in Reno.  Kala, The Purple Princess managed 47.8 MPG, very good considering all the climbing at the beginning of the day, without an equal amount of compensating downhill. 

My husband also bought himself a small soft serve, since he didn't get to visit the Isle of Desserts at the buffet.

Perhaps it's best not to advertise certain town names by their initials.

The Humboldt Sink is never a scenic repast.  At least the sun was behind us, and Kala's nano-ceramic window film cut the glare from the salt flats.  My eyes half closed, I could think of pioneers dumping priceless heirlooms onto  the desert, and the resulting reconnaissance treasure hunts: First by wagon, and then---for the lesser relics---auto trucks.

I awoke again in Lovelock.  We have spent time poking through these threadbare towns and searching out the remnants of the Victory Highway, so there wasn't much of a reason to do so again.  There is a pretty good stretch of the old Victory Highway north of Lovelock, however, if one is interested in pursuing such things.  It goes through a [mostly] failed ranchette scheme---one that was heavily advertised in the Bay Area in the 1980s.  The old road has better views than the Interstate because it's higher in elevation and occasionally changes angles.

We stopped in Winnemucca to top off the tank, gas being cheaper there than in Elko, our destination.  50.9 MPG, so The Purple Princess was now running practically ten miles a gallon above EPA highway estimate.  Feeling quite well again, I took the wheel and drove through town, which seemed more lively than in the past.  Mining seems to be on an uptick, and shuttle buses were carrying workers out of the canyons back to town.  On the Interstate, dozens of SUVs passed by in groups, sporting little flags of various design---meant to be easily identified out on the desert.  The vehicles were marked something like 'Small Mining Exploration'.

The sun dropped down low behind us, picking the scenery up out of the haze and causing the temperature to slowly drop away from one hundred degrees.  The Purple Princess climbed Emigrant Pass without much ado, and then rocketed down towards Carlin in neutral.  She's a real 'high roller'.  By the time we made it our neon signed motel, she was ticking along at 54.9 MPG.

Hello, Girls!

"Would you like to make a non-slip tie rack? In that case put a couple of cup hooks on the back of the closet door and stretch a rubber band between them, one that's about an inch wide, and your husband's ties won't slip. Now if only you could be as sure of your husband ..."

It was yet another sundry household hint, served up with a side of sarcasm by Allen Prescott, 'The Wife Saver'---a daytime fifteen minute radio show that ran for most of the 1930s on the NBC-Blue Network. In a wilderness of sobbing soap operas and matronly home economists, his was a voice unique: a man that didn't feed off the fears of housewives or speak of them as ladies as they toiled over the washtub.  They were just the girls.  Sure, such a greeting today is cringe-worthy unless delivered in clear camp mode, but in the context of the times such a salutation was also an invitation to step back from the daily household grind and muse doesn't this job stink just a little?

And, perhaps, a very few of the girls understood just what kind of man Prescott was.

Hello, girls!

Radio was just as good as Hollywood in making up stories, yet the ever-pending-disaster situation that was live broadcasting was fertile ground for one-in-a-million chances and freak successes.  It could be true that Prescott pestered his boss so much for a coveted newsman slot that the boss stuck him with the job of dispensing household advice. It could also be nothing less than a personal insult from his boss.  Whatever his beginnings, Prescott performed a perfect I'll show you.

And show them he did.  The radio industry didn't understand the success of 'The Wife Saver', or at least pretended not to. The men that ran that industry and the sponsors that paid for it all never asked women their opinion of it, even if the show was resolutely broadcast to them.  Daytime radio tread a very fine line in trying not to offend anyone's sensibilities, however archaic or male-centric.  Women were not to be too distracted from their household duties, so their entertainment was best if it was musical, instructional or inspirational in a soapy kind of way.  Comedy was too distracting or even subversive---and besides, no one ever studied what women thought was funny anyway.  The only judge of success was fan mail and, into the later 1930s, ratings.

When pressed, the radio industry thought the success of 'The Wife Saver' was based on the very idea of a bachelor telling women how to run their household.  Could anything be more ridiculously funny?  After all, of the other very few forays into daytime comedy, such as 'Sisters of the Skillet', the men were always mocking the household hints genre and those who queened over it.  However, Prescott  publicized the anger, frustration, and boredom of the nation's housewives with knowing asides.  For example, when he suggested that women find a new way to do an old household chore, he claimed that doing so would "leave you wide open to find something else you'd rather not do".

 Prescott presides over a male fantasy of housewifery. 

Unsurprisingly, Prescott's sense of humor required manhandling by publicity.  In his initial splash of national success, he was photographed with scantily clad 'housewives' while posing with a string mop like a demonic Roman orator.   This is how radio brass and the sponsors wanted to imagine the girls he endlessly addressed on the air, and by inference, project the idea of him as a crazy straight man.  The photo, however, tells a certain truth in that Prescott's interest does not linger on the illusion presented, but is focused directly on his true audience.

As 'The Wife Saver' labored on into the 1940s, Radio and Television Mirror reported that Prescott was "a husky, handsome chap who doesn't fit in at all with one's mental picture of a man who presents household hints on the air."  The taint of femininity never was far behind him, and great daytime success kept the man in his place and away from the prime time he always coveted.  Yet his $20,000 annual salary (over $250,000 in today's dollars) was a pretty nice consolation prize.

In 1941 Prescott changed the name of his show to 'Allen Prescott Presents', but the show's content was basically unchanged: household hints, sewn together with humor and music.  NBC did give him a prime time trial in 1944, when radio talent was scarce due to World War II, but nothing long term came of it.  Then Prescott himself went off to war, serving in the Air Force on the Aleutian Islands---in a huff of sorts, one can imagine.   He was forty years old and in a mid-life crisis.

Prescott returned to radio in 1946 and into the burgeoning syndication market.  Improved technology allowed for high-quality transcript recordings and low cost flexibility for local radio stations, which grew exponentially after World War II.  Again NBC handled the proceedings, and the name of the show reverted to what everyone remembered: 'The Wife Saver'.  While popular, it may not have been like what long-time listeners recalled: Surviving recordings are quite dull in comparison to the 1930s scripts.

Like many radio performers, Prescott tried television in 1947.  'The Wife Saver' had only a five-week New York run in an era when daytime television programming consisted largely of test patterns.  It's likely the concept didn't suit the medium, as showing a handy hint not only slowed the proceedings but also looked less clever than it sounded.

The Wife Saver continued in radio syndication throughout the 1950s in an ever-dwindling market, with the last demo tapes being made in 1963.  In between recording transcriptions, he substituted for radio's venerable The Breakfast Club host Don McNeil and apparently had a respectable run on daytime television in Philadelphia as a talk show host.  In the end, however, he never escaped his own creation.  Allen Prescott's 1978 New York Times obituary opined: "Allen Prescott, 74, 'Wife Saver' was defined by his association with the program."

First edition, 1937

It is, of course, impossible to fully uncover the man behind the publicity---of what he wanted to be and what his bosses wish he was---to discover who he was in his private life.  Almost forty years have passed since Allen Prescott died; surely most of the people who knew him, even in his advanced years, are gone, too.  His scripts, recordings and memorabilia reside at the Library of Congress, yet perhaps one of most telling artifacts just came up for auction: A rather tattered first edition of Noel Coward's 1937 autobiography Present Indicative.  Inside it is inscribed: "For Allen Prescott and we hope it will be fun. 'Handmaiden'."

From a handmaiden

The script is decidedly masculine and the quotes suggest inside knowledge.  Was Handmaiden a campy friend or an effete personal assistant?  The 'we' is suggestive of the former---as from one member of a couple, but it also could speak of a social circle with a mutual understanding.  While the details are lost, the meaning remains queer.

Chevroladies

We're buying a new car.  I find no joy in it.  I'm not an auto huffer in desperate need of freshly manufactured inorganic volatile compounds, nor do my buns quiver when they slide over virgin, margarine-soft leatherette.  Well, they might quiver---but from age, not excitement.  It's too serious a decision to get all that thrilled about, and once all the research is done one must dumb down and step into the automotive circus sideshow of fluttering flags, leaping 'air dancers' and ginormous gorillas.  Because giant gorillas inspire consumer confidence nightmares.

My first encounter with a car salesman was at the tender age of eight.  I recall the baleful green glare of florescent lights, a candy machine that I was allowed to visit but once, but in the end nothing happened because my father never made a quick decision.  Well, not exactly nothing: As we crossed the lot back to our yet dependable car, the manager came running out of the building, jumped onto one foot to pull off his shoe and then waved the supposedly desirable yet sweaty object in the air.

I'd sell you my shoe but it's not for sale!

We scurried away to the safe confines of our Sahara Beige Plymouth Duster.   Mother, more gregarious than the rest of us, chuckled first.  His shoe?  What does that mean? In modern parlance, it was truly a WTF moment.  Needless to say we bought our next car elsewhere.

Flash forward some thirty-five years to a moment of casual car cruising.  We had arrived at an adjacent restaurant early, so we decided to kill some time looking at a new model.  Within seconds a salesman appeared---and I must clarify he was a man of color in a city of no color, because it's pertinent to the story.  Trailing him was a little candy blonde saleslady, apparently just learning the ropes.  He started his spiel; I explained we were just looking.  He pitched again.  I retorted a little less politely, pointing out we were meeting our niece next door in ten minutes.  Again he started, and I heard myself go shrill.  He retreated, but not without a loud aside to the blonde:

They're just racists.

I was too nonplussed to bitch slap him.  Well, okay, I really don't have that in me---and besides, he was too far away---but really?  You want to talk prejudice?  My husband and I will gladly compare notes with you.  I just don't want to buy a damn car today.

The candy blonde did not seem perturbed by his claim, only calculating.  Can I sell a car to a racist?  She then set a rather determined look on her face and glided forward with all the allure she could muster.  Why yes, I can sell a car to a racist.

We ran, just short of screaming.

I vowed then and there I'd never buy another new car, but ten years and 350,000 miles later, it's time.  To be honest, I've bought a number of new and used cars from dealers---and the experience has always been sort of like watching The Wizard of Oz, but less entertaining.   As the deal closes, I'm always muttering there's no place like home.  There's got to be a better way---and now there is:  It's called Chevroladies.


Really.

Vroom, vroom

Did you know that women account for 65% of all new car purchases and 53% of used car purchases in America and yet only 4.2% of Sale Associates are women?

Chevroladies aims to take the fear out of car shopping especially for women. We offer a no hassle, no pressure approach by appointment where you can work with a knowledgeable female Sales Professional in a comfortable, friendly environment. No games, just the information you need at the price you want. Simple and easy.

Swell!  Except the last time I checked I'm no lady ...

"Maybe we could go in drag," I mused to my husband.  "Or maybe we can be terribly modern and say we identify as Chevroladies."

Or maybe we can just call on madame herself---the sole Lady of the Lot---and perhaps get Chevrolady Service by inference.

But no, we're dealing with a car dealership, so it wasn't that easy.  Because we're men, I guess.

We called for Jane at the front desk, and she did appear---albeit in surprisingly unprofessional attire.

"It's my day off," she explained  "but Joe here can help you," she added, waving to an older gentleman hovering behind her.

"Oh, we're in no hurry,"  I smiled.  "Perhaps you can give us your card and we'll make an appointment."

Jane seemed a bit mystified by my formality.  "Joe's an excellent salesman."

Now was the time to gush about wanting to be a Chevrolady---or babble about really wanting to work with her.  I babbled.

"We really want to be your Chevrolet dealer," Jane replied automatically.  "I don't get a commission anyway."

Wannabe Chevrolady

I could feel my eyes roll back into my head.  It's not about you, honey.  At least not anymore.  I turned away and let my husband talk to Joe.  I simply don't understand why she didn't take my cue, hand me her card and chirp that sounds great, call me!  It's really that easy to make a potential customer happy.  Screw the protocol and hierarchy and the obvious wanting to be my Chevrolet dealer.  I'm not stupid.

Joe's a good guy.  He's their Senior Salesman.  No, that does not mean he's been there the longest, it means Hey, Joe!  Two old farts are fondling the subcompacts!  Get out there!  

That would be us.

Joe sat down at his computer and pulled up a page that looked suspiciously like the one I had been studying at home ever since it appeared online.  Perhaps he has access to some magic links, but no---I could have answered all my questions myself in my usual self-defeating manner.

No, only the black pit of death interior is available with that color. 

Have you noticed how the auto industry now abhors color?  Their lots and our streets are a sea of white, foaming with silver and shaded by black.  Throw in a few colors that even a two year old leaves in the Crayola box.  Gastric green, anyone?  Why has every subcompact made in the last five years been available in Gastric Green?  Can I order a car in primer and have it painted Mary Kay Pink?

No.

So we made concessions.  The black pit of death interior is okay, even if it climbs to 110 here in the summer.  That color is too dark, but at least its not a primary color.  It became as simple as wanting a fully equipped 2LT in that color with a manual transmission.

The Kalamata Kiss of Death

You want a 2LT with a manual transmission in that color?!

Um, yes. Is that a problem?

Well, dealers don't like 2LTs with manual transmissions---they don't move off the lot fast enough, so very few are delivered.  Our color of choice was not alluded to directly, but it was obviously the kiss of death:  It's the only color suggestive of a Chevrolady, and Chevroladies don't shift. 

So we had to Special Order, and the only person that does special orders is---Jane.

I could not refrain from smiling like a Cheshire cat as we sat at Jane's desk, but apparently she saw no irony in the situation.  It was just business, quickly done.  Sadly, any sense of progress ended when we asked for an estimated time of arrival.

You see, the Special Order is magically sent to Never-Never Land, where---in due time---it's made by oompa loompas and then transported over a vast ocean on a giant lily pad propelled solely by Mr. Toad. 

And that takes...?

"Two to four months," Jane replied.  "But don't worry, once your car arrives in Fremont, it'll get here in no time.  Our transport driver does his best for me because I give him bottles of wine."

Meanwhile, she could have the decency to supply me with a case or two....

Dead Saturday

Saturday, 19th September
Burns, Oregon --- 360 miles

I didn't pay much attention to him at first.  Just another silver Ford Expedition in the right lane, creeping up to my side.  Then he started drifting into me, so I tapped my horn.  That failed to get his attention, so I laid into my horn.  He continued to bully me, pushing me into the far left lane --- and flipping off my seventy-eight year old mother for good measure.   Mother returned him an age-spotted finger.

"He's talking on his cell phone," she reported from the back seat as we decelerated out his way.

Such arrogance.  It was almost as if he had a jackass accomplice on his cell, and they saw a ten year old Prius with a faded equality sticker ahead and decided to take aim.  My husband next to me did a silent, slow boil.  I was thankful that I had only two more exits before I could get off the Interstate 5 and hit the two lane, where coping an attitude involves more risk.

Shoulders have been added to a considerable stretch of 299 in the name of safety.  There's now room to serve out of the way of the arrogant or oblivious, but that means there's also more room to exhibit either trait.  The width slacks the sense of speed, dulling the driving experience --- and the right foot presses on and the mind wanders.

Finally the shoulders fall away, revealing the original 1930s driving experience.  Flaming red poison oak flashes past my right fender; old apple trees bend down under the weight of an unattended crop.  There's an amazing amount of large fruit considering it's another drought year, but nothing is close at hand unless I want to get a rash or tackle barbed wire.  Collecting apples is one of pleasures of fall travel.

299 curves gracefully along side       , gently climbing towards Round Mountain.  Another curve reveals a pair of Ford Model As ahead of us puttering along at 45 MPH.  I follow along, studying the cars and slowly loosing patience.

"Too bad they don't have those retrofit four speed gearboxes," I said to my husband.  "Remember the fleet of As actually climbing to Frazier Park at 50-55 MPH?"  He did.

Eventually the As found a suitable place to pull over and let me pass.

We stopped in Burney to breakfast at the Rex Club.  We were the only ones there, but the atmosphere suggested a long wait.  Good coffee and a quietly perky waitress tempered that, and the silence was somehow comforting.  The furnace fired up, and I did a NASA-style countdown aloud, perfectly predicting when the blower would kick in.  Everyone laughed in amazement.  Out the window nothing much was happening.  A couple of characters sauntered by with their yard sale finds.  A huge woman in an electric wheel chair rolled by, her chihuahua perched on her lap.  Eventually our orders arrived, and were well worth the wait --- my omelet being one of the fluffiest I've every had.

On the road again, we passed the woman in her electric wheelchair well past MacArthur and heading east to God knows where.  Her chihuahua had grown a bit impatient with the long ride and was now perched high up on some sort of pack behind the seat.  She definitely had confidence in her battery.

We climbed and dropped through thirsty pines and oaks just starting to turn rusty for autumn.  The towns seemed more threadbare than ever, and a late frost had stripped all the fruit from both feral and front yard apple trees.  Thoughts of winter subsistence on venison and sage-tainted rabbit played through my mind.  The only real sign of activity was at the little regional supermarkets a few of the relatively larger towns had.

Alturas, California in better days.

We detoured down the main street of Alturas.  So ghostly for a Saturday noon.  The few thrift stores were strangely closed on what should be their busiest day, but we found the one for the Humane Society open on a side street.  I parked in the shade and jokingly warned Mother not to talk to any trailer trash from the sad camp nearby, and we went inside.  It wasn't as bad as it could be, and a 1950s celery green plastic flour canister for fifty cents did tempt, but where would I put it?  We turned our attention to an inner room filled with cages and kittens, where a crazy cat lady delineated their method of naming alphabetically.

"This is Peter, and this is Paul," she babbled, "but this is a girl --- "

"So she should be Mary," quipped my husband.  She thought he was quite clever.

We stuck our fingers into the cage of a lively, highly spotted gray tabby and then left.

Continuing out of town on the side streets, we kept on the look out for neat old houses midst the latter-day desecrations.  Alturas has a number of quaint stone homes, but our find that day was a substantial brick bungalow with dressed stone around the windows and doors.  Zillow reports the unlikely high value of $240,000 during the real estate bubble, now down to a bargain at $64,000 --- unless you consider the neighboring gray pile. 

Goose Lake was practically dry.  When it first receded in white man's history, during the dry 1920s, wagon tracks were revealed from the pioneers trekking the Applegate Trail.  I wondered if they still existed, or were obliterated by the curious in the dry 1970s.  The adjacent wild plum winery was closed, the dry-farmed trees twisted and laying down to die.  A few branches sported large red fruit, but the wayward apple trees were still bare.

Lakeview, Oregon seemed somewhat more lively --- if only for an inordinate amount of smokers standing outside in support of their habit.  However, the antique store revealed that nothing has moved in the last ten years.

We passed crusty Abert Lake, smelling like a freshly opened can of cat food.  The landscape, suddenly lunar, reflected on the liquid mirror.  Birds stood talon deep in the fairly fresh liquid of the north shore.  And then there was endless miles of empty high rolling sage.

It wasn't always this empty.  Desolate, yes, but in 1908 the first transcontinental automobile trip passed through here, and they reported two things: A migrating family, who hid under their wagon  because they mistook the auto for "a train that ran off its tracks", and a night at a homestead of an elderly couple --- sleeping under quilts that looked as if they came West in '46 and hadn't been washed since.

Perhaps this homestead became Wagontire --- which, in its last incarnation, was a 1950s cinder block motel/cafe/gas pump.  Empty now, except possibly for an adjacent 1970s mobile home.  Opposite is a large sign high up on telephone poles.  It's black; perhaps white lettering has long since disappeared --- just as the black is beginning to, revealing a valuable gold and red circa 1930 porcelain enamel Shell sign. 

These days being half way to someplace else isn't a good enough reason to stop for gas and a Coke.

Deja vu

Last fall I drove to a book party at the Central Library in downtown Los Angeles---a mere five hundred mile jaunt.  Oh, don't worry about my queer extravagances---I was multitasking the whole time, picking up sweet deals on seasonal closeouts at nurseries along the way, visiting family and friends---hoping to be inspired to finished one of my own quasi-literary projects.

That afternoon a high tropical overcast broke free at the edge of the San Fernanado Valley, and I broke free of the Ventura Freeway at Topanga Canyon to drive the Boulevard.  Not because it is faster, but because I had the luxury to do so instead of rushing along like everyone else in a walled off world as representational as the Los Angeles River.  On Ventura Boulevard the traffic is more tidal---bowling forward and hissing back, cars like kelp breaking off and stranding behind a beached whale of a bus.  Yet there is still room enough to recall the story of my grandfather's 1936 Buick---the one that lost a rear wheel and squatted down on the same street, while the wheel itself continued on its way to Glendale.  The wheel eventually lost its bearings and wondered off into a storefront. Great Great Aunt Ada---who once described herself as "slightly smaller than a Buick"---cried in the back seat, thinking she was the cause of the mishap.

Ventura Blvd at Tampa --- circa 1950

Hang a right on Havenhurst and one can drive into the past.  The walnut groves are gone, but the 1930s haciendas are not---still prominent midst their latter day crop of post war homes.  A turn to the right, a swing to the left and then the climb through the decades begins---topping out in the swinging sixties where the pavement ends on Mulholland Drive.  Heading east again, my car sways south and north along the ridge, catching views from Catalina to Mulholland's Cascades at San Fernando.  The indirect afternoon light is like a memory, revealing and softly surreal.  A dozen lifetimes caught in amber, that low smudge of smog creeping northwest along the base of the Verdugo Mountains.

The canyon roads bisect the way: Beverly Glen, Coldwater, Laurel.  Topless tourist vans stop to focus on the inner galaxy of stars below them.  My eyes follow suit but briefly and then my mind wonders back to Sunday walks up Outpost Drive from my courtyard apartment on Franklin.  The compound was built to corral Paramount's starlets in the 1920s, to plant and nurture the seeds of glamor---a trait gone extinct in our now-hostile environment.  Fakery is now more direct, less sophisticated.  Twerk it, baby.

Mulholland at the Caheuenga Parkway --- circa 1940

Approaching Caheuenga Pass the downtown skyline appears to the southeast like a Golden City of Oz.  Mulholland twists down and vaults over a river of cars on the Hollywood Freeway and then gets lost in the other Hollywood---the one with the lake and the sign that the movies did not build.  The largely exotic landscape grows lush and hangs over serpentine concrete streets, muffling the outside world.  Not much has happened here since Peg Entwistle jumped off the thirteenth letter of the HOLLYWOODLAND sign in 1932.  She was an actress, but we'll never know if her launching spot was symbolic or merely convenient for her, being a resident of Hollywoodland's Beachwood Canyon for that last year.  The LAND ending was eventually scrapped and what remained recycled to sell a much bigger commodity---leaving the neighborhood to lose itself under swaths of magenta bougainvillea and the gentle sway of creamy angel trumpets.

Hollywoodland --- circa 1930

There is no way but down from here, at least while behind the wheel.  Franklin, Hollywood---the merge onto Sunset.  This stretch of boulevard looks way better than it did twenty five years ago, yet proudly retains its edgier establishments.  Familiar shops have moved here, escaping other once-fringe neighborhoods of Hollywood that have gone twee.  Silver Lake, Echo Park---and finally Figueroa and downtown Los Angeles.  I'm only an hour early.

Emerging from the parking garage under the Central Library into the pink twilight, I wander across Meguire Gardens and up Hope Street's Spanish Steps.  A young bearded businessman smiled indulgently as I reached for the stony cascade of water at hand atop the meandering central divider.  It's a quirky feature, this waist high brook---as if it rose from the past into this forest of skyscrapers.  And there I am in my cowboy boots and western print shirt, flicking a finger through the water.  His eye contact with me is direct yet fleeting as his dress shoes click on down the steps.

At the top of the stairs I head north and then east towards an opening in the glass forest.  California Plaza is the kind of vast public place of sheets of water, stairs and terraces where Busby Berkeley could put a thousand dancing girls through their paces---with perhaps a gratuitous tracking shot of City Hall through a tunnel of the best legs on the lot.  A dark blue glamor spreads over the scene, nearly empty of people in spite of the warm night.  Square domestic tableaus light up overhead, climbing skyward like digital sparks.

KRKD radio towers and City Hall --- 1930

I find myself on the eastern edge of the plaza, next to the upper landing of Angel's Flight.  To the north is the iconic monolith that is City Hall, to the east southeast a Beaux Arts building lit up like a wedding cake aflame.  Farther south is a blue black bulk of a building topped with twin spires---archaic radio antenna towers, each with the letters KRKD silhouetted against the lit horizon.  I scan this view, over and over, like a meditation---until the atmosphere is dense with the layers of time.  Now the Lindbergh Beacon is slowly rotating atop City Hall, the Beaux Arts building is softer, whiter---and the now red letters on the antennas are spelling out each letter downward: K-R-K-D.  Then the call letters flash as a whole.  I watch the neon cycle, unsure of what I'm seeing.  The letters' action is likely lost to history; perhaps they never displayed more than static indifference.  Yet the letters continued to cascade and then flash as a whole.  I return my attention to City Hall and its relatively well known Lindbergh Beacon, darkened after Pearl Harbor and only recently reinstalled and lit for special occasions.  It is not lit now, that I know because the beam it throws cannot cut the modern urban glare---but there is that beam, spinning slowly round.  I'm not looking into the past but looking through layers of it, as the glass forest remains.

I am not alone.  I'm aware again of the usual characters of the past around me, but there is someone new.  I am unsure, because the new presence is akin to an old favorite---but Linda is stepping back, making space for her look alike.  It is the subject of the book, the reason for the party I'm about to attend.  She is dressed better than my other specters of that era, and I suddenly feel shy---focusing on the bias cut of her chic dress, the silk covering the glimpse of leg above her pumps.

"Don't you think it's time to go?"

Ann Dvorak

Her voice is unmistakable, one that still sounds modern after its initial impact on the silver screen some eighty years ago.  It is Ann Dvorak.  I catch the flash of her smile---understanding, open, indulgent---and I follow.  And the rest of my gang follows along.

It is too bad the author doesn't believe in such things.  She is a librarian at the library I'm about to enter, and she's just been through the seasonal spate of people suddenly interested in researching the past owners of their houses because they are haunted.  She posted on Facebook that her poker face was getting good practice because "THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS HAUNTED HOUSES."  I suppose not, at least in the pop culture sense.  The thrill is not in the fright, but to connect.

I turn back towards the Central Library, my spectral cloud tagging along as I drop down the Spanish Steps.  Outside of Ann, we're a casual crowd.  Linda---who really could be Ann's stand in---is dressed in a print frock and the man---who is an actual contemporary of Ann's---is in trousers and sweater.  We move along not in close knit form but as a contingent of compatriots with our own agendas.

Richard Cromwell and Ann Dvorak in The Strange Love of Molly Louvain, 1932

They disappear when I enter the library and everyday anxieties take over me.  Meeting Room A is to the right and I pause, considering my unfashionably early entrance.  The door is open, people come and go.  I'm not the only one.  I take a deep breath and enter, only to immediately encounter at my right a larger than life black and white projection of the man who had just accompanied me back to the library.  Richard Cromwell, now costumed as a bell boy, is exchanging lines with knocked up and spiraling downward Ann Dvorak in The Strange Love of Molly Louvain---the book party's first feature of peripheral entertainment.  I grin at the image, reminded that they'll take every opportunity to regain my attention.

The author, Christina Rice, espies me from across the room and flashes one of her trademark million watt smiles.  That smile, those dark locks and bangs---her perfect pale skin personify the second tier, slightly saucy vintage Hollywood look.  She slowly makes her way through the growing crowd towards me.

"This is crazy," she gasps as she draws near.  "Nobody comes to a library book party early."

Christina pauses, eying me---a stranger but on Facebook.  My body language must be more relaxed than I am, as she assumes a pose of offering a hug---and I happily oblige.

"I can't believe you drove all that way," she says once she releases me.  "I hope you had other reasons to make the trip."

I assure her I did, and after a few other niceties we could have settled into a getting to know you type of conversation if not for the ever growing population of the room.  Christina glances around and smiles apologetically.  She must get back to her duties.

It would be the last of the personal contact I experienced at the party, outside of standing in line to buy for a library-supporting premium her book  Ann Dvorak: Hollywood's Forgotten Rebel and having her sign it.  I stand a good five feet from the wall to avoid being the proverbial wallflower, but there's no getting around that this is what I am.  I perennially try to make eye contact with strangers, and occasionally they reflect my silent plea, but it seems nobody is a stranger but me.  Singles unexpectedly couple up or bump into people they haven't seen in twenty years.  They pile up at the refreshment table, tasting purported Ann Dvorak recipes pulled from old movie magazines and newspapers.  It's at once alienating and heartening, being part of this love fest for the author and her subject.

Mary Carlisle, 1930s

There is a guest of honor.  She sits under a large blowup of a newsprint photo of her young self along side Ann Dvorak.  She looks surprising spry for a woman batting a hundred, dressed in shades of hot pink---right down to her sneakers.  The laces are missing, and there are suggestions that her feet are swollen, but her hair is remarkable.  Dyed a becoming pale shade of strawberry blonde, it falls thick and wavy to her narrow shoulders.  Large sunglasses complete her look in spite of the subdued lighting---something I choose to believe is less about attitude and more about something like macular degeneration.  Occasionally the boys stop and stoop to pay homage to her, chatting for awhile before moving on, but the one steady by her side is a middle-aged woman that must be her companion/caretaker.

I should go over and talk to Mary Carlisle.  She starred with Richard Cromwell in Baby Face Morgan, after all.  But I do not move.  I feel totally opposite of my experience at California Plaza an hour before.  She might not remember Richard, or tell me something that I can't believe.  I can't recall any other movie Mary Carlisle was in.  I play polite conversation in my head but can't make myself walk over.  Instead I stand and watch a movie silenced by the din in the room.

Enter an old homeless woman---most certainly the fairy godmother of Pippi Longstocking.  Tiny as a sparrow, she sports stripped stockings topped by clothing in tight layers.  Her granny cart is similarly packed, and she parks it in a dark corner and then stands a few feet from me.  Great.  Guilt by association.  But her proximity grows on me, even when guests catch her out of the corner of their eye and then quickly look away.  We watch the film on our own little island away from humanity, she never seeking eye contact as I do.  She wanders off to discreetly wedge her way to the rapidly diminishing refreshment table, and I hope she finds something to her liking.

Pippi's godmother again returns to watch the film.  I've seen it so many times that I can almost hear the dialog, so I wonder what she's getting out of it.  No one else is watching but us, and she looks enthralled.  Childlike.  I can imagine her in a movie palace as a little girl, lost in the magic---and maybe, briefly, forgetting a horrible reality.  The End flashes on the screen, and she raises her tiny hands in the air to applaud like a grateful audience at the greatest stage performance ever.  One palm hits the other, and then stop in mid motion.  Her hands quickly retreat from their heights, suddenly aware of the situation, of the segregated reality we all live in.

One Out of Six Ain't Bad

My husband and I have had chickens for fifteen years, more or less.  They make good pets, eat food that has expired or you've lost interest in, and occasionally give you eggs.  That is unless you're Bitch Bird, who hordes her eggs in far away places.  One realizes she's up to something when she goes about her business, only to stop and suddenly display a certain calculating expression.  Then she waits until no one is looking and disappears --- at first for hours, then days.  Eventually, after many a repetitive search, we find her little blonde body spread out over dozen green, infertile eggs.  Bitch Bird deserves credit for being broody, though --- all the other hens we've ever had have been the lay 'em and leave 'em type.

I'll take that back about chickens being good pets.  Sure, we've heard about all those hens that get in your lap when you sit down, but it seems the little bantys we always get are of the more independent, high-strung type.  We did have one that would follow us around and once got in the Prius as we were packing for a trip, but that's about the most allegiance a bantam hen has ever displayed to us.  The trade off is that they're much thriftier to feed and a much smaller, faster target for predators.  And honestly, when do you really need an extra large egg?  If you're a poor enough cook not to be able to guesstimate the equivalence of medium eggs in a recipe, go buy a dozen jumbos at the store.

Bitch Bird --- uh, Beebe --- with her full-size stepchildren last summer.

Bitch Bird doesn't live with us anymore, having been adopted out during our last, long moving process.  She now lives with Our Lovely Lesbians, who discreetly call her Beebe.  She is the step mother of most of their full-size hens, having sat on their eggs collected from our country neighbors.  Beebe now also has a full-size boyfriend, although initially it seemed she was too bitchy for him: Her first dozen infertile eggs eventually started exploding under her.  This time around she has managed to hatch one of her own eggs --- a tiny gray chick (which we will inherit), and one of her step-daughter's --- a giant black chick.  Then she rejected five eggs and moved the remaining four to under the straw where she hangs out with the two chicks.  She was correct about the five eggs --- the proved infertile upon inspection, but her summer brooding method on the last four remains a mystery.


Since Beebe's track record has been poor as of late --- oh, hell, let's blame her boyfriend --- we purchased six chicks for our new home.  Six chicks usually guarantees around three hens (bantams are too small to be sexed as chicks), but it soon became obvious we had at least four budding roosters, including one that started out having calm bedroom eyes but morphed into a adolescent with a paralyzed leg.  He spent most of the day nestled in the lawn, his bum leg out to one side like an demented ballerina.  Otherwise he seemed content and healthy and was not harassed by the others, so the situation was sustainable.

The Chiclets --- in happier days.

While at our last property, Rancho Notorious, my husband built a portable A-frame hen house that can be rolled about --- providing security and a perennial patch of new ground for our hens.  A slight drawback to the design was that one end had to be lifted and two wheels installed in order to move it over the rough ground inherent to the ranch.  Now that we have lawn in exurbia, it's fairly easy just to push the hen house a short ways to a new spot.  This worked the first time --- the flock just bungled along as the frame pushed them, but the second time our one obvious hen got her foot caught.  She let out a plaintive cry as we jumped around, trying to lift the frame off her foot and feeling like complete shits for our laziness.  She hopped away on one foot, and Mr. Disabled immediately followed, sitting down next to her when she parked on the grass.  Aww.  She suffered no visual damage, but it's likely she'll be at least disadvantaged from now on.

Next morning, life in the hood wasn't so swell.  Her passive posture on the ground caused nascent sexual domineering among the pubescent boys --- something her new boyfriend could not defend her from, so we moved the new couple to a cat carrier.  Her attitude suggested this was the nadir of humiliation, but her boyfriend thought it was swell and crowed for the first time --- all the while maintaining a gallant manner towards her.

We had no intention of maintaining separate and unequal chicken housing.  My husband already had found out the local feed store takes in strays and unloved animals --- including roosters --- and finds them new homes.  We just had to wait until their current stock of roosters was adopted out --- an event that happened to coincide with our negligence.  So we scooped up the three obvious roosters, but what about her boyfriend --- and the Silver Seabright, who is slightly bigger than the rest and looks like a rooster, but was at least lowest in male hierarchy?  Upon removal of the three roosters, the Seabright looked startled, and then let out his first crow of triumph.  Okay, our lady has a new boyfriend.  If they get along, we may get slightly larger eggs and prettier hens.

Seabright (left) and Peg Leg

 They get along.  Perhaps Silver Seabright is less than gallant, keeping the choicest food offerings for himself, but he does spend a lot of time sitting next to her.  Peg Leg --- the unlovely name my husband has given her --- now has a trophy husband.